


Refuge

by RocksCanFly



Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: And Giant Mutated Polar Bears Are A Mandatory Part Of Any Love Story, Fix-It, Fluff, Kaldur'ahm of Shayeris is Not An Effective Terrorist, M/M, Pre-Invasion, Roy Harper is Bad At Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3111266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy is on the hunt for Speedy; Kaldur is on the hunt for Black Manta’s attention. When bears and bombs force their paths to cross, the two must confront each other and the lingering strangeness between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful and Roy-Harper loving yourfatherisahamster in collaboration with the talented and patient ShadesNinde. Both can be found over at tumblr under the same names.

The explosion catches him off guard, which is rich, because he’s the one who set it off – a crude device, built from parts he stole from warehouses and assembled according to instructions he found in a book in the Cave library (also stolen). It was supposed to reduce a Agenorisian patrol station to rubble, or at least cause enough damage to attract some attention, but Kaldur’s plans never seem to go the way he wants them to, no matter whose side he’s on. And this plan, to be sure, has gone quite awry.

The adrenaline sustains him as far as the city limits, but the moment he reaches open water he feels it begin to ebb, the energy draining rapidly as he swims away from the scene of his crime.

His body is aflame with pain. There are burns across his exposed skin – neck, legs and arms – and half a dozen sizable pieces of shrapnel buried in his chest and shoulders. A thin trail of blood follows him as he swims, flowing quickly from a particularly nasty gash in his side and more slowly from the dozens of smaller cuts all over his body, but he tries not to ponder what else might be lurking in these cold, northern waters.  He can’t afford to worry about that now. Instead, he calculates internally: he can make it four miles, perhaps five, before he’ll need to seek shelter and tend to his wounds.

At first, he can think of no place that would harbor him, not with the things he needs. The zeta tube is no longer an option, and even if it were, Poseidonis is half a world away.  If he’d been thinking before he set off on this madness, he would have given himself safe havens, places on which to fall back when things inevitably veered off course. But he wasn’t, so he doesn’t have any such contingencies. Still, someone else does, and if memory serves, one of them is only about six miles off. If he conserves his energy, swims steadily but carefully, remembers the codes...

Even as he adjusts his course, though, he finds himself hesitating. He will be putting himself in danger, not only of discovery but of arrest. What’s more, it doesn’t feel right to abuse the privileges of a tie now severed. But now, with his mind fogging over and his blood departing his body more quickly by the minute, he finds he has little alternative. Angling himself toward the northeast coast, Kaldur kicks out and prays to the gods he’s already forsaken that blowing up a shallows police station won’t have been his final act. 

* * *

 

Roy is having a not-so-great day.

Scratch that- he is having a fucking terrible day.

It started off okay, really, he thinks to himself as he leaps desperately to another branch, scrabbling for a grip on the damp, icy wood. He had a great tip on a Luthorcorp storage facility, he was able to sell a few art pieces on the plane ride over to help cover his rent and travel expenses for the next few weeks, he got into the facility pretty easily, even dug up some potential info-

And then the bastards saw him. And did they tie him up in a conveniently unlocked room and try to interrogate him, like any decent henchmen?

No. No, instead they sicced a polar bear on him.

A giant, mutated polar bear that just took three explosive arrows to the face and is mad as hell.

The tree Roy is clinging to quakes violently, shuddering and showering him with snow. An enraged growl rumbles up from the ground, and Roy peeks down through the branches to see the enormous, lumbering bastard getting ready for another go.Shit, shit, shit- he thinks panickedly as he searches for another tree to leap to. He’s got a few arrows left for a zipline but he’s nowhere near close enough to his safehouse to start using them up just yet.

The sound of fast, lumbering footsteps approaches- Roy shimmies quickly further up the tree, settling into the higher branches just in time to brace for the impact. As the tree gives way beneath the behemoth, Roy launches himself wildly towards a distant tree.

His gloves fist closes desperately around one branch-

And slips.

Falling and cursing, Roy makes a wild grab at the air, frantically searching for a hold.

With an _oomph_ , he smacks down on a low, sturdy branch.

A low, sturdy branch that is, judging from the way the monstrous bear is charging towards him triumphantly, is just low enough to make him prime snacking material.

“Fuck my life,” Roy groans softly, slowly getting up to balance on the branch.

The bear closes in on him, mouth open and roaring- it leaps, enormous head coming level with Roy’s own.Roy pushes off the branch hard, just barely escaping a swipe of the of its enormous paw and tumbling towards the ground. He manages to land on his feet, breaking off into a run the moment he hits the ground.

From behind, he hears a loud crack- the tree, thin enough to snap from a swipe but tall enough that it’s still pretty fucking heavy- crashes down on the bear.

Roy sprints on, knowing that that stunt hasn’t saved him so much as bought him a few much needed extra seconds.

He keeps sprinting through the snow, frantically checking around him for the landmarks that signal that he’s close to the safehouse. There, the sharp drop to the ocean that borders the safehouse, he’s only about a hundred meters away-

And judging by the roar quickly getting louder behind him, he’s going to make it about fifty more before becoming bear chow.

Deciding that it’s now or never, Roy fires off a shot behind him. It misses wildly, but the flash of light when he presses the button that detonates the flash-bang arrowhead might blind the lumbering mutant bastard just long enough to-

There it is, the squat little steel shack of his salvation.

After equipping his last arrow with an explosive head and shooting it off behind him as he closes in on the door, Roy quickly fumbles out his key, sliding it into the lock as he hurriedly punches in the pass code. The door yawns slowly open and Roy turns just in time to see the beast bearing down on him, white fur matted in blood and eyes red with rage.

He barley is able to slip into the crack of the opening before the bear reaches him, just managing to slam it shut before the creature can wrench it open with one paw.

Roy hurries to bolt the door shut, putting three feet of steel between him and Mutant Albino Smokey out there. The moment the latch clicks he collapses against it, exhilarated and terrified.

“I,” he says to himself between gasps, “Am fucking awesome.”

He indulges in the emotion for a moment- the thrill of escape, of survival- as exhaustion settles into his limbs. Eventually he gets his heart rate down enough to look around the safehouse, taking inventory of himself and his surroundings.

Once his eyes touch on the floor, he freezes.

“Fuck.”

There’s blood smeared on the floor next to the door. And it’s certainly not his.

Cursing softly and drawing his boot-knife, Roy creeps out of the entryway and into the dark central room.

From what he can see in the dark, the blood runs in spatters and smears all the way to the couch just opposite the doorway. A dark shape lies slumped on it, indiscernible in the gloom of the fluorescent strip lights the line the room for emergencies.

Crouching and knife ready, Roy flicks on the overhead lights.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, just barely holding onto his knife in his shock.

It’s Kaldur, unconscious and bloodied on his couch. What remains of his clothing is torn and blood-soaked, drenched in sea water and crusting. Messy bandages are wound all around his chest- a patch job, probably done by the man himself shortly before he passed out from blood loss. 

* * *

 

Kaldur registers the light as if it’s coming from a world away. His entire body aches and stings, but military training never really wears off, and the moment his subconscious realizes his hiding place has been compromised he forces himself awake, eyes dragging open.

The sight that greets him makes him regret it. Why, after two years of being untraceable, unfindable, unreasonable, has Roy chosen this moment to force a reunion? But despite the temptation to roll over and pretend this isn’t happening, Kaldur heaves himself half-upright on the couch, counseling his face into a cold, embittered expression. He cannot show that some part of him is relieved to know that Roy is alive, and by the looks of it, in relatively good health, if somewhat out of breath.

“You have come to apprehend me?” he asks, trying to look more formidable than he feels at the moment.

“What in th- apprehend you?” Roy says incredulously, face twisting in confusion. Befuddled, he tucks his knife back into his boot and makes his way over to the other man. “For what, bleeding on my sofa?” He questions as he gets to his knees in front of the couch, reaching out to examine Kaldur’s wounds with all the impunity of someone who hadn’t disappeared months ago without a word. “Jesus, Kaldur,” he says gruffly. “What the hell happened to you?”

Kaldur pulls back from the touch immediately (though what kind of pain he fears, he can’t say).

“Do not make the mistake of thinking I have not changed during our estrangement,” he says, avoiding the question and struggling to find words to keep distance between them. He has set off down this path and he must not turn from it, or all his and Nightwing’s plans will crumble. “I am not the man you knew. I am not your friend.”

Roy doesn’t answer immediately- the way Kaldur says the words, more than their content, sets his hackles raising. Dropping back to rest on his heels, he takes in Kaldur’s wounds with the same kind of attention he pays to infiltrated LuthorCorp storage facilities and offices.

Kaldur’s wound has to be very deep- not only are there bandages wrapped around the area, but a large lump betrays the presence of packing. The Atlantean’s skin is gray with pallor, and Roy knows that if he were to take Kaldur’s hand it’d be icy to the touch instead of its usual cool.

Smaller abrasions litter the Atlantean’s skin, pink gouges in dark flesh, all seeming to have been made in the same direction by projectiles of various size. Leaning in (and ignoring the way Kaldur flinches away from him as only the truly stubborn and audacious can), Roy breaths in the other’s scent.

Ah. There- beneath the smell of salt and fresh blood. The familiar tang of sulfur.

“You tried to defuse a bomb, and it went off on you, didn’t it?” Roy questions. He keeps Kaldur’s words at the back of his thoughts- the other man is obviously delirious from bloodloss.

“A bomb I set,” Kaldur says with deliberate harshness, trying to work up the will (or even just the physical energy) to push Roy away. “I have no doubt they are – they are out looking for me.”

Abruptly, a wave of dizziness washes over him. As his vision swims, he reclines back onto his elbows, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Remaining upright, it seems, is not in the cards.

A moment later a cup of cool water presses to his lips.

“Hey, don’t go passing out before you tell me all about your journey to the dark side,” Roy jokes softly, moving to support Kaldur’s head in his hand. The other man flinches away from the contact, spilling the water, and Roy resigns his other hand to hanging awkwardly at his side.

“So how many people did you manage to kill?” Roy says callously after a moment of silence. He’s not- he’s not trying to be cruel, here. But after what he’s done in the last few months, the things he’s stood by and allowed to happen for the sake of getting the info he needed- Roy’s not feeling too indulgent of Kaldur’s guilt-complex at the moment.

Kaldur closes his eyes, swallowing the water with gratitude he doesn’t allow himself to show.

“I do not know,” he lies – no one was killed, or at least, no one should have been. He went back because it had seemed, for a moment, that one of the officers was going to reenter the building. “My father has never cared so much about the loss of Atlantean life so much as the destruction of the Atlantean state.”

He forces his eyes back open again, looking Roy over. The archer is sporting an empty quiver and a few holes in his own uniform, though he looks for the most part intact.

“And you,” Kaldur questions, loading his next words with spite and feeling the guilt wash over him preemptively. “You are still chasing your own ghost?”

“Don’t call him that,” Roy snaps, agitated. “He’s not dead.”

At Kaldur’s raised brow- more eloquent than any put down the man can probably make up when he’s this close to passing out, Roy thinks uncharitably- Roy rolls his eyes and prepares to trade his story.

“Tell you what,” he starts instead, suddenly exhausted. It’s been a long, long fucking day, and he doesn’t really fancy ending it with arguing with Kaldur until his friend-turned-supervillian (hah, as if) passes out again. “Let me take a look at your wound, because you’ve probably packed it wrong again and you’re going to end up dying of an infection before you can endear yourself to Manta. I wouldn’t want to see you cut down so soon in your very first teen rebellion, so if you let me help you out, I’ll tell you why a mutated polar bear is currently trying to break in here and have me for lunch.”

Kaldur narrows his eyes, but knows that beneath the insults, Roy is right. He hasn’t done a good job tending to his own injuries, and he’s lost more blood than he cares to admit, and if he doesn’t accept help, he’ll likely end up too physically compromised to continue his mission. And Neptune knows there is so much mission left – months, years of work he has yet to complete...yes, he needs Roy to think he’s sincere in his cruel intentions, but he’s no good to either side dead.

He glares, but after a moment, nods and lies back in submission. As Roy moves to unwrap the bandages, he arches one eyebrow.

“Mutated polar bear?” he repeats, processing what the archer said.

Slipping his hands underneath the couch to fish out the medical kit, Roy nods. “Yeah, I’d actually be sort of excited if I weren’t the person on the menu,” he mutters, snapping the gloves on and beginning the delicate process of unwrapping Kaldur’s bandages. “Apparently Luthor experimented on a lot more than a few random animals in the jungle- there’s a whole repository of dangerous, carnivorous creatures just a few miles from here. I was going to call it into the League when the great furry bastard managed to eat my damn radio.”

Kaldur hisses as Roy reaches the lower layers of the bandages, where the blood-tacky fabric pulls at the wound when Roy lifts it away.

Roy lets a harsh breath hiss through his teeth as he lifts the final bandage away.

The wound in Kaldur’s side is nasty- a deep gouge at least three inches long and half an inch deep. It’s definitely going to leave an impressive scar.

“You’re lucky this thing just scraped by you,” he says bluntly as he pulls out a fresh wad of packing and a suture kit. “A few inches in the wrong direction and I don’t think the League would have to worry about the new supervillain on the block.”

Kaldur feels like he should come up with some sort of snappy retort, using sharp words to distance himself from his own mortality, but he says nothing, just lies back and tries not to make a sound as Roy pulls the last of the bandages away. He can see the suture kit out of the corner of his eye and tries not to anticipate the sink of the needle into his already-blistered skin.

“You have taken to – “ he hisses in pain as Roy swabs gently over the area around his broken flesh with an antiseptic pad, “ – to interrogating beasts, then?”

Inwardly, though, he is relieved to hear that Roy has no radio. He doesn’t think his friend would turn him in, but he might, perhaps, to get him help, and he doesn’t want any attention right now, medical or otherwise.

“Just getting chased by them,” Roy mutters in reply as he wipes carefully at the outside of the wound. “So, you’re evil enough to blow up a building--”

“-- A police station,” Kaldur interrupts, tensing as the antiseptic stings raw skin.

“A police station,” Roy corrects himself, prepping the suture needle. “I’m assuming it was full of orphans and baby dolphins at the time, seeing as you’re evil now. So, you’re an unapologetic terrorist and traitor to your country, and you’re still too polite to take the bed?” he teases lightly as he readies himself for the grisly part of the procedure. Roy has sewn himself up often enough, but the force it takes to get the needle through Kaldur’s thick, tougher skin has always made him feel a bit squeamish when he’s been called on to do this for the Atlantean.

“It was too far away,” Kaldur mumbles, closing his eyes as he sees the needle come out. That’s not even true – the bed is only about eight feet from the sofa. He didn’t take it because he didn’t want to get blood all over Roy’s clean sheets, but that isn’t exactly the thinking of a sociopath, which it’s clear he’s failing to convince Roy he is. “Had I known you would be dropping in, I would not have even – ah! – come to this place.”

The first push of the needle is agony. Scarcely has he finished his sentence when he feels the darkness coming back for him, and though he fights it, by the time the thread has completed its first crossing of his ruptured skin, he’s deeply unconscious once more.

* * *

 

Through the next day, Kaldur drifts in and out of sleep, never quite surfacing to the level of full consciousness. He suspects Roy administered him some kind of drug to quell the pain, or perhaps a sedative – he’s not usually this heavy a sleeper, particularly not in a situation he knows is unsafe. Then again, maybe his subconscious recognizes that he’s safer than he thinks he is.

In a few of his bouts of semi-consciousness, he wakes to find he has been moved to the bed and tucked in with some care. The blankets have been arranged carefully around him, leaving a pocket for his wounds to breathe, but setting off the arctic chill (even for an Atlantean, this place is a little cold). When he lets his head fall to one side, he sees Roy asleep on the couch, the spare blanket wrapped tightly around his body like a snug cocoon. A powerful urge to redistribute the bedclothes comes over him – in what universe does he need two blankets and Roy only one? But his drowsiness is too powerful to overcome, and before he can get himself out of bed, he’s asleep again, with one more thing to feel guilty about in his dreams.

Some time later he wakes up again to a soft touch beneath his head and on his lips; his eyes slip open and he finds that the glass of water is being pressed to his mouth again. This time, he doesn’t try to argue. Roy says something to him – his mind is too foggy to understand it, and it doesn’t sound like a question, so he doesn’t try to – and lifts his head gently to help him drink.  When it’s all gone, the archer withdraws his hand, adjust the blankets, says something else, and turns away.  Kaldur feels a pang at that. Though he knows he shouldn’t, he wants Roy to stay. He wants to see his face again, to memorize it for the months (years?) to come. But theres a thousand and one reasons he shouldn’t say that, so he just closes his eyes again and slips back into his mind.

He dreams of Atlantis in ruins, of bodies in the water and blood on his hands. Some part of him thinks it’s unfair that he’s already having nightmares about crimes he’s yet to commit, but he can’t wake himself, so he lets the vision proceed. He watches himself lead an army of dead and living soldiers to the Atlantean palace, except it’s not the palace, it’s the Hall of Justice, sunk beneath the waves, the great statues of the Founders staring down at him and his skeletal followers like so many intruding bugs.  When he opens his mouth to declare his intentions – come to conquer Atlantis in the name of Black Manta – he finds his lips have been sutured shut. Then a hand comes to rest on his arm, and he turns to see Roy standing there on the bottom of the ocean floor, looking unimpressed. Don’t be an idiot, the archer says, and throws an arm around his shoulder to lead him away from it all.

When steps out of the Hall (palace?) without carrying out his intent, though, everything crumbles behind him, the golden heads of his old heroes falling through the water and cracking amidst the other debris. Still, Roy’s body is warm beside his own, Roy’s smile untroubled (like he hasn’t seen it in years), Roy’s eyes bluer than the ocean around them.  Then, suddenly, his friend’s hand is wrenched from his by an unseen current, and before Kaldur can do anything about it, Roy has been swallowed up in the wreckage, crushed beneath the fallen rafters and shattered glory. Unable to move, help or even scream, Kaldur wakes up in a cold sweat. 

* * *

 

Moving Kaldur’s unconscious body is more difficult than it used to be, Roy thinks as he stumbles the few scant yards from couch to bed, the Atlantean heavy in his arms. It’s not just that he’s gotten so much bigger, he thinks ruefully as he works the covers up from under the man and tucks them around him gently. I’m not exactly in top shape at the moment, either.

Roy will be the first to admit to himself that the hunt for Speedy hasn’t been kind to his body or mind. Where he, Ollie, Dinah, and the supposed budding-supervillain on the bed differ is their opinion on how much Roy’s own health and safety matter when weighed against Speedy’s freedom.

Content with Kaldur’s positioning/resemblance to a burrito, Roy grabs a sponge and pot of water and sets to wiping away the blood from the floor. The couch is a bit of a goner, but oh well.

As he scrubs down the door he can hear the low wuffling and heavy thuds of the bear continuing its efforts to break into the safe-house. Roy smiles grimly to himself, imagining the situation to be like an old cartoon he once saw as a kid of a squirrel wrestling with a coconut. The bear’s the squirrel, the steel shack is the hard shell of the coconut, and he and Kaldur are the tender insides.

Okay. Maybe Roy’s been alone with his own thoughts  for a little too long. What of it? Nonsensical parallelisms between himself and the inside of a coconut are hardly the most absurd thing about this situation, what with a giant mutated polar bear outside and Kaldur claiming to be evil, of all things.

As he wrings out the sponge and rinses the pot out so he can heat up some soup, Roy contemplates that new little absurdity in his life. Kaldur’ahm of Shayeris: Bad Guy.

He’s not seeing it. This is the kid who let his whole team run all over him for like, a year because he couldn’t stand to hurt their feelings or “damage the cohesion of the group” by chewing them out and calling them on their shit. The guy hand-writes encouraging, inspirational responses to ALL of his fanmail, even the letters demanding that he “take his shirt off” signed with telephone numbers.

Now, Roy doesn’t doubt that Kaldur did, in fact, blow up an Atlantean police station. What he’s certain of, however, is that there’s something else behind it. There usually is with that man.

His thoughts- and pot-scrubbing- are interrupted by a low moan. Turning off the water, Roy very carefully doesn’t rush over to Kaldur’s side. Instead, he calmly retrieves the medical kit from where he stowed it beneath the sink and approaches the bed cautiously.

When he gets a good look at Kaldur, Roy realizes he’s still unconscious, but his skin has taken on the grey pallor that usually signals either pain or blood loss. Taking a moment to check the bandages, Roy quickly ascertains its the former rather than the latter.

Roy hesitates- it’s not generally considered good form to just dose your friends with narcotics, but considering he’s hardly ever heard Kaldur vocalize pain before- it might be a good idea.

So Roy loads up the needle with the extra-strength cocktail of pain meds and fever-suppressants that he keeps in every safehouse (he never really gave up hope that one day Kaldur would ditch the Junior Justice League and team up with them. It was a stupid hope, but it was… Something to fight towards that was equally as likely as his main goal but a little more selfish. Having Kaldur as a partner would have made things between them simpler, for one). Flicking it gently to get out the air, he slides the super-strong tip into the inner vein of Kaldur’s arm.

The other man’s handsome face smoothes out as the meds take effect- the deep furrow of his brow un-wrinkles, the twist of his soft mouth flattens into a neutral line. Roy notices that Kaldur still looks, well, troubled- but he doesn’t look like he’s in agony anymore.

After fetching a glass of water and forcing Kaldur to drink it- his eyes hardly open, that’s how far gone the man is- Roy starts back in on the soup.

About an hour later the soup’s gone and Roy’s fletching/arming arrows for his eventual showdown with the bear still snuffling around outside. He’s just gotten the to the tricky bit- affixing the explosive head to the shaft without setting anything off and while making sure the things set just right to maintain balance, when he starts hearing garbled Atlantean coming from the lump of blankets on the bed.

Pushing himself off the stained couch (thanks, blanket burrito), Roy re-fills the empty glass with more water and goes to check on his patient.

What he hears when he’s close enough for the mumbled words to be audible is enough to make him pause.

It’s not all in Atlantean, for one. Which is something that only ever happens when Kaldur’s having nightmares; Atlantean is the language of peace, for Kaldur. English-

English is flashbacks, usually.

But what Roy’s hearing right now can’t be from flashbacks. Kaldur’s mumbling, words slurred with sleep and fever to the point where Roy can only catch about one out of every three or so.

He approaches the bed, setting the glass down on the floor and leaning in close enough to hear Kaldur’s words but avoid his twitching limbs. It’s not good to touch someone when they’re in a nightmare.

There’s the Atlantean words for ‘army’, ‘dead’, and ‘sacrifice’. Dead comes up a lot, in particular. Then there’s just a litany of ‘sorry’ (said in English) and ‘forgive me’ (Atlantean again) and ‘gone’ (back to English).

It’s a jumbled mess that sounds like the making of nightmares, which is most certainly what the Atlantean is having. From what he can hear, Roy guesses that it’s something about Kaldur performing an attack- a big one, with other people, no just a petty bombing of what was likely an empty police station- and him not wanting to.

The dream continues on and the words change. Hall is mentioned, and the Atlantean word that means, roughly translated, “the known gods”- a nickname, Kaldur had once told him, that some Atlanteans use for the founding members of the Justice League.

And in there, littered throughout and in increasingly concerning conjunction with the word “stay,”  is Roy’s own name.

The dream goes on, seeming to get more and more horrifying as Kaldur’s frantic shakes and twists increase their ferocity and Roy’s own name falls again and again with disturbing frequency- Until suddenly Kaldur sits up, his mouth in a wide, open “o” as he gasps Roy’s name in the voice of a dying man.

* * *

 

When Kaldur awakens, the first thing he notices is Roy’s face, except something – the blood loss or the drugs or the panic of his nightmares – prevents him from recognizing it as such. All his subconscious recognizes is threat, and accordingly, he throws a punch at the head floating far too close to his own.

It’s a terrible blow, confused and feeble, one that Roy blocks easily with a noise that reads somewhere between surprised and not amused.

“You,” Kaldur gasps, his chest still heaving, the images he just witnessed still flashing through his mind, slickening his grip on reality. “Where am I?”

Roy quirks a brow, slowly lowering Kaldur’s hand back to his side. He doesn’t let go. “You’re in the middle of the arctic, stuck in a steel box with me after you supposedly blew up a police station somewhere in Atlantis. I was being chased by a mutant polar bear, took refuge here, and found you bleeding out on my couch. We had a lovely chat about your changing career goals and then you spent the last three hours in a fever-induced haze. Any of this ringing a bell?"

As Kaldur’s breathing slows, he forces himself to look around the location, taking in the steel walls, the bloodstained couch, the little kitchenette, the fletching kit still lying open on the floor. His eyes move back to Roy, traveling from his (once) friend’s face down his arm to the hand now enfolded around his own.

“Yes,” he says at last, shutting his eyes and letting his head fall back against the pillow, then opening them almost immediately as he’s inundated with the lingering images of his nightmare. He attempts to harden his tone: “Why are you caring for me?”

Roy’s face drops, hand tightening over Kaldur’s own. Something seems to shutter-over in his eyes- the blue go a little harder, a little cold.

“I guess I wasn’t aware that caring for your best friend was a crime,” he retorted sofly. “Or is this more of your I’m-a-supervillian-now nonsense? Because in case I haven’t made it clear enough: bullshit, I’m not buying it.”

Kaldur opens his mouth to reply, consternation clear on his face, and Roy holds up his free hand to stop him.

“Look,” Roy says, voice urgent. “I can believe that you’d blow up a police station for the right reasons- you’ve always been pragmatic like that. It’s the reason we would have made a great team. I believe that you can do, well. A lot of things, for the right reasons,” Roy’s voice starts to rise imperceptibly in volume, and his hand tightens over Kaldur’s own.

“But I can’t imagine,” Roy continues, “Not for a single fucking second, that you would ever, ever put an innocent life at risk if something much bigger wasn’t at stake and there was no way you could avoid it. You don’t have it in you to be evil, Kal. You’re too-”

“Stop,” says Kaldur hoarsely, cutting Roy off before he can finish the thought. His throat is tight, chest heavy with emotions he can’t name as he struggles to find the right words to turn his act around, but it seems he’s already given away too much. Why, after two years of barely seeing each other, can Roy still read him like a mission brief?

Still, he can’t tell him. It would put both of them in too much danger. And Roy already puts himself in so, so much danger...

“What you believe is hardly relevant,” he says at last, feebly, but even as he speaks his eyes find the archer’s and he begs him silently not to press further. He doesn’t want to lie to his face. But perhaps if he says nothing, he can keep them both marginally better protected.

Roy seems to read the look loud and clear, but the visible way he bites down on his lip reveals how difficult the request is to fulfill.

After a few moments of awkward silence- during which they both become more and more cognizant of their joined hands, though neither move to separate them- Roy rolls his eyes.

“Whatever,” he mutters to the floor. “It’s not like I deserve to know what’s going on with you, anyways. I guess I lost the right a while ago, huh?”

Kaldur tries to ignore the little throb his heart gives at those words, even as he fights a similar throb in his head. Consciousness is a struggle, but he wants to clarify, wants to find some way to convey the cheesiest of all surface dweller sentiments – it isn’t you, it’s me. But between his drowsiness and the difficulty of piecing his feelings together English, his thoughts slip away from Roy’s words, bleeding into each other as he works to stay awake.

He’s silent for a long time, considering how to speak, if to speak at all. Then suddenly words are rising from his throat faster than his mouth can catch them:

“Agapo se ta,” he says - _I loved you_ \- and a split second later his fevered brain is frantically praying that Roy doesn’t remember enough Atlantean to understand, or else just didn’t hear him.

For a moment Roy’s hand loosens over his, and Kaldur fears that the other man is going to pull away- in shock or disgust, it doesn’t matter; either would be heartbreaking.

Silence stretches on, settling like a thick cloud over the small room. It’s surprisingly comfortable, and Kaldur can feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness.

Slowly and gently and as if Roy were trying very hard not to startle one of the cats he was periodically being asked to rescue from a tree, Roy draws Kaldur’s hands together under his own. He folds Kaldur’s hands into themselves and sets to stroking the other man’s knuckles with his thumbs in a slow, a soothing pattern. The sensation is oddly comforting, and Kaldur feels the last of his will to stay awake slip away.

The last thing he’s aware of, so faint and through such a heady cloud that it may well have been nothing but the beginning of yet another dream, is Roy saying, softly- “I knew.”

* * *

 

Kaldur’s out like a light as the words leave Roy’s mouth, sea-green slipping away beneath golden lashes and brown lids just in time to save Roy from the embarrassment of what he’d just said.

It’s not that Roy would die of embarrassment if Kaldur had heard that particular admission- it’s just that he’d rather not try to explain what he’s done to someone high on a fever and pain meds.

That, Roy acknowledges to himself, And I’m a coward who can face down literally anything but an emotional confrontation head-on.

Silence stretches on for a brief while, interrupted only by Kaldur’s soft breaths- unlabored by nightmares, thank God- and the quiet rasp of Roy’s warm thumbs drawing over and over Kaldur’s knuckles.

Something about the scene- the odd peace of it, maybe, of Kaldur fast asleep in front of him and the knowledge that, for now, Roy couldn’t leave to continue the tireless, tiring search for Speedy even if he wanted to- prompts Roy to speak.

“I knew for years that you had feelings for me, you poor blind bastard,” Roy says softly to the man sleeping across from him. His tone is heavy with something like regret, tinged blue with an empty sort of wistfulness. “The saddest part of it is that you didn’t see that I’ve been in love with you for years too.”

Something in Roy expects Kaldur to react to that- for those golden lashes to flutter open, for those soft, sad eyes to go wide in surprise- For Kaldur’s full mouth to drop into a surprised “oh” and for disbelieving brows to shoot straight up to meet the military hairline.

Instead his friend remains supine and unawakened, unfairly and thankfully oblivious to the embarrassing little drama Roy’s playing out for him.

Sighing to himself and allowing an awkward chuckle or two at his own foolishness-- how stupidly self-indulgent is he, confessing this to someone so deep in fever-and-drug induced sleep that the bear outside breaking in probably wouldn’t be enough to wake him?--  Roy continues. “I figured it out about a year into the whole Speedy thing,” he admits, thumbs still drawing soothing, random patterns on the backs of Kaldur’s hands. “It was at that New Year’s Party that Dick had- the one where you confiscated all of Artemis’s alcohol? And we ended up on the roof of Wayne Manor to watch the fireworks over Gotham? I saw you looking at me, when everyone else had paired off. It took all the restraint I had not to kiss you, then.”

As he admits this last bit, Roy’s mind is flung back to the occasional times, in these last years, that he and Kaldur have, well. ‘Taken comfort in one another’, is what Kaldur would say if he were awake and willing to admit that those nights ever happened. ‘Hooked-up’, Roy would call it, if he weren’t so uncomfortable with how simple it made the whole thing sound.

“That night wasn’t like the hook-ups we’ve had. It would have been too obvious that it wasn’t just lust on my end,” Roy says, moving his thumbs down to triece the delicate veins on the back of Kaldur’s hands. “ It would have been too hard to sell it like I  thought it was just lust on your end, too. It would’ve been the start of, like, an actual relationship. If only because your Team would have kicked my ass for kissing you and not following up so soon after you and Raquel broke it off. And a relationship?” Roy pauses to laugh again, but this time the humor is undercut with bitterness. “That was out of the question.”

Roy’s thumbs pause in their work- he considers leaving it there- his half-assed, unfinished confession. It’s not like the other man’s awake to hear it, or to ask questions. Roy could go back to fletching arrows like nothing happened. Just get up from the chair and set back down into work, dodging emotional self-confrontation (because Roy can acknowledge to himself that that’s what this is, really) like he always does.

Something makes him stay.

“It would have gotten in the way,” Roy says bluntly. He’s not sure who he’s saying it to, at this point. His thumbs starting back into their senseless stroking of the dips and ridges of Kaldur’s folded fingers.

“I already had the weird shit with Jade and all the dramatic crap with Ollie and Dinah- As much as I wanted to be with you, I knew I’d never really get you to leave the Team. Which means that I’d always have to be coming back. And staying focused, staying away,” Roy’s voice cracks a little, and his thumbs pause in their senseless patterns to press down firmly on Kaldur’s knuckles, like Roy’s afraid Kaldur will just slip away if he lets go. “Staying away was hard enough while it was just a matter of me wanting you,” he continues. “Actually having you? Knowing that any moment that I spent out there in seedy hotels or stowing away on freezing cargo ships and doing horrible, skeevy-ass things in the name of barest ghost of a chance that I learn anything that might, might lead to what could well be just a corpse- Knowing that that time could be spent with you?”

Roy lifts Kaldur’s hands to his lips, presses a kiss into each bruise and scratch that litters the smooth brown skin of those hands. If wetness speckles them in suspicious patterns when Roy sets them back down to rest on the other man’s chest? No one’s there to call him on it.

“I never would have been able to leave, I’d be so happy. And I don’t deserve to be that happy- least of all with you,” Roy finishes, and gets up from Kaldur’s bedside.

He spends the next two hours fletching and arming arrows, preparing for his showdown with the monster outside. He can’t stay in this oddly peaceful cabin any longer than he has to- somewhere out there is a boy who loses an hour for every hour that Roy wasted. Roy owes it to him to find him.

Roy goes to sleep when he’s done fletching, intent on resting up just enough to be in good fighting form. The ride over here was a long one, and everything (but most especially the things that have happened in this very cabin) since he got on that plane has left Roy exhausted.

When Roy awakens from his supposed nap he finds out it's been twelve hours. Someone disabled his alarm.

Without looking, Roy know’s Kaldur’s gone. It’s not until he goes to check the bed on the off chance that he might be wrong and finds the deactivated mind-control collar- as big as a kid’s hoola-hoop, goddamn- that Roy realizes the bear is, too.

With that, Roy pulls on his boots and spare coat, and with one last look at the shack- at the bloodstained couch and the rumpled bedspread- ventures back into the cold.

* * *

 

“What’d she say?” Roy asks Kaldur from the couch as the other man returns the kitchen phone to its place on the wall.

“Lian is welcome to stay the night,” Kaldur replies. “Dinah insists it is no trouble.”

“Great,” says Roy, fluffing the cushion next to him. “Wasn’t really feeling trying to retrieve her in this storm, anyway. No motorcycle traction.”

Outside, the wind gives a little howl, snowflakes whipping past the windows of Roy’s apartment and rattling them in their panes. Star City doesn’t often get snow, but tonight it’s doing its best to imitate one of its northeastern sister cities – they’ve got three inches and counting. 

“You could have taken a bus,” says Kaldur as he moves to put away their supper dishes. They ate some time ago, a quick meal they threw together before going to help city workers guide the homeless to the emergency shelters they had opened up – the hero gig isn’t always about fighting crime.

“I’m sure she’s glad to get to spend some time with Gran and Gramps anyway,” says Roy. “God knows they spoil her rotten. Now quit messing with the plates and get over here.”

Kaldur rolls his eyes affectionately but does as he’s told, slipping just one more fork into its drawer before crossing into the living room, where Roy is reaching over to prod the fire with the iron poker.

“There,” says Roy, apparently satisfied that he has made a meaningful change to the state of the flames. He sets the poker down on the hearth and puts his legs back up on the couch, taking up its full length. When Kaldur raises an eyebrow at him, he shifts his knees apart and pats the space between them invitingly, blue eyes flickering in the firelight as he smiles up at his partner. Obligingly, the Atlantean lowers himself onto the couch, biting back a smile of his own as the archer’s arms draw him back to recline against his broad chest. Finally, settled between Roy’s legs, head resting back against his shoulder, he closes his eyes and lets out a small noise of contentment that the other man echoes back into his ear.

“Have you made plans for the new year?” Kaldur asks as Roy’s arms wrap more snugly around him.

“I don’t know,” says Roy, nuzzling the side of his neck (Kaldur flinches slightly at the tickling sensation in his gills, which makes Roy chuckle). “Catch some bad guys, watch Li grow some more, keep you out of trouble...the usual.”

“Keep me out of trouble?” Kaldur repeats somewhat incredulously.

“Yeah,” says Roy, the grin audible in his voice as he gives him a gentle squeeze.

“I see.”

Roy laughs and presses a kiss to the Atlantean’s cheek. They’re both silent for a long moment, just the rush of the wind outside and the eager crackling of the fire in the fireplace. It’s been a long time since they’ve had an evening like this – a few months, perhaps, which of course is nothing compared to the years they spent apart. But still, it’s nice to have some downtime.

“Not too warm?” Roy asks at last, his voice soft. His hands have taken to stroking over the fabric of Kaldur’s thin sweater, fingertips following the stitching.

“No,” says Kaldur, snuggling up against him. “Not too cold?”

“Nah,” says Roy, squeezing him again. “I got a great blanket.”

Kaldur shakes his head but can’t keep the smile off his face. Roy’s hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, apparently abandoning its exploration of the sweater in favor of exploring his stomach. Callused fingertips brush over the irregularities in his skin, tracing the patterns Roy painstakingly memorized when they reconciled last winter in an absolute mess of apologies and misunderstandings and shouting (it was very embarrassing and they don’t talk about it now). As Roy’s hand reaches the ridged edge of a particularly pronounced scar on his abdomen, Kaldur is brought back to a different little space, a pocket of safety surrounded by snowy danger what feels like half a lifetime ago.

“Roy,” he murmurs, brow furrowing slightly.

“Hmm?”

“I am unsure I ever thanked you properly for saving my life.”

“Which time?”

Kaldur slaps Roy’s arm gently, because they both know what he means, but he doesn’t press the point, just turns his head to kiss the crest of Roy’s shoulder and settles back against his chest with a soft murmur of gratitude.

“Hey,” Roy whispers in his ear, hugging him close. “You coming home is all the thanks I need.”

Home.

Kaldur shuts his eyes and smiles. There’s a storm outside and he’s still relearning to sleep through the night, but right now there’s a fire in the fireplace and the man he loves most in the world is holding him close, holding him safe. The hand up his shirt travels further, rubbing gentle circles into the muscles of his chest, and Roy’s breath ghosts warmly against the side of his neck.

Life can send all the mutated polar bears it wants. He’s not moving. 


End file.
